


hello world

by lolainslackss



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Drinking Games, Enemies to Lovers, Exy Fandom, Exy World Cup, M/M, Masturbation, POV Alternating, Panic Attacks, Sharing a Room, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 09:28:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17118755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolainslackss/pseuds/lolainslackss
Summary: Everyone on the US national team knows that Andrew Minyard and Neil Josten hate each other, so of course they all think it's hilarious to force them to share a room in the name of 'team harmony' for the entirety of the Exy World Cup.An enemies-to-lovers/professional Exy AU[hiatus]





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eta: this fic is on hiatus as of 27/6/19
> 
> cw for entire work so far: references to canon-compliant past traumatic events, references to self-harm, references to scarring, references to homophobia, dissociation, flashbacks, panic attacks, masturbation
> 
> [here's](https://open.spotify.com/user/1170883658/playlist/5ZIxYRoy3OYDQkpfPpJSrQ) an overly-long, messy af playlist for this fic

Through the tiny rectangle of the airplane window, Andrew can see all these white chiffon clouds piled on top of each other in layers. They blur the blue of the sky, turning it a pale periwinkle, and they mask that unsettling sight of cities and fields and oceans from miles above, but they’re still clouds, and he’s still up here with them, and he wishes he could call Bee and tell her, _no_ , some things don’t get better with time. He can’t though, because his stupid phone is on flight mode, so instead he pulls down the plastic cover, blocking out the sky, and he turns up the volume on his phone so that the music settles over everything like a sheet of deep snow.

Bored, he starts flipping through the airline’s free magazine. It’s even more insipid than he thought it was going to be and he stuffs it back in the pocket that’s in front of him. At a loss, Andrew casts a thoughtless gaze around the plane. Some of his teammates are scattered around the aisles, chatting to each other and joking around. Others are napping, showing off their gaping mouths and demonstrating how loudly they can snore. Briefly, his gaze snags on Neil Josten’s and he notices Neil’s jaw tighten as his eyes narrow into a cool, blue stare.

If anyone were to ask him why he hates Neil Josten, he’d tell them he doesn’t. He’d tell them Neil isn’t worth the energy it takes to hate him. He’d tell them he couldn’t care less about him.

Really, he does hate him, and the _why_ is simple.

For a start, he’s loud. He’s obnoxious. He mouths off to reporters, rants online, and is a general mouthy asshole on the court. He reminds Andrew of one of those tiny yappy dogs, but instead of barking, he won’t shut up about Exy. He won’t shut up full stop. On the few unfortunate occasions they’ve been at the same event, Neil doesn’t let anyone have a drink in peace and forget about the stupid game for five seconds.

And then there’s that smug grin every time he manages to score a point, as if he’s accomplished the impossible and should be knighted for it. Andrew hates that smirk, and he hates the way Neil flips his taunts right back at him: the _better luck next time_ s and _try to keep up_ s that are not only echoed but drenched in twice as much sarcasm.

Plus, there’s that whole Daysten thing. He can’t stand that.

That’s just the way it is: Andrew hates Neil, and Neil hates him right back. It’s simple, really.

Matt Boyd takes a seat next to Andrew, interrupting his thoughts. Reluctantly, Andrew pulls out an earbud.

“Sorry Aaron couldn’t make it out this time,” Matt says, meaning it, because he’s like that. “He’s a good player.”

“Not good enough, apparently,” Andrew replies, gesturing to the rest of the plane and the players who _were_ chosen to take the United States to the Exy World Cup.

“Will he be okay?” Matt asks sympathetically.

“He’ll get over it,” Andrew replies, and it’s the truth. His brother loves Exy more than anything and would be honoured to play at the Exy World Cup, but he’s also realistic enough to understand he isn’t on the same level as these players.

It was, in fact, his brother’s love of Exy that had pulled Andrew into this world in the first place.

Aaron always claims that Exy saved his life, ignoring the fact Andrew was the one who spun the wheel sideways and destroyed the person destroying _him_ , or that Andrew was the one who forced him to get clean. He can still remember Aaron’s voice, muffled through the bathroom door, sounding twisted and wrong as he begged for a bump of coke or half a pill or _anything_ to take the edge off. Andrew refused over and over. He even cleaned the puke out of Aaron’s hair. But with Aaron it’s always Exy this, Exy that. Apparently it gave him direction, purpose, blah blah blah. Andrew barely listens anymore.

When they’d graduated college, Andrew had ignored the offers from many high-ranking teams, choosing instead to join Aaron playing for the Green Bay Hummingbirds. After a while, he was invited to play nationally. Aaron claimed not to care, but he was clearly stung that Andrew did the bare minimum and got chosen for the US court while he worked his ass off and didn’t. Andrew had been tempted to stay home with Aaron to prove he didn’t give a single fuck about the Exy World Cup. He could have had a lazy summer playing video games and reading the books Bee had sent him. He could have avoided getting on this awful plane to Tokyo. But playing for the US Court at the Exy World Cup equalled a lot of cash, and Andrew was hellbent on having the largest retirement fund possible. Aaron would just have to stew in his own sour juices.

“You think we’re going to win?” Matt continues, never one to get the message that Andrew’s not interested in small talk.

“I don’t have an opinion on the matter,” Andrew replies blandly. “Every player in this competition probably thinks their team is going to win. They can’t all be right.”

“A little optimism can’t hurt though, right?” Matt asks. He’s wincing but his smile is still intact.

“We’ll need more than optimism,” Andrew mutters. They’re all good players - celebrities for a reason - but they’re also used to the harmony of their home teams. Despite his contempt of the word, teamwork is actually key when it comes to a sport like Exy.

“You’re talking about Neil, right?” Matt asks, and Andrew is momentarily surprised. Maybe Matt’s more perceptive than he lets on.

Andrew grits his teeth in lieu of a response. Matt waits. It’s no secret that Neil and Andrew don’t get along. Neil’s team, the Chicago Capercaillies, have a historic rivalry with the Green Bay Hummingbirds. When their teams play one another, tension is already slick in the air like a summer heatwave. Neil being an insufferable bastard just exacerbates the problem. Their barbed words have descended into real fighting on more-than-one occasion.

“You guys could be our greatest asset if you just learned how to get along,” Matt says chidingly, as if he’s dealing with two small children who can’t figure out how to share their toys.

“I’d rather fly this plane back to the States myself than learn how to get along with him,” Andrew says eventually.

Matt laughs abruptly and then his expression morphs into something Andrew can’t quite place. Matt opens his mouth as if he’s going to push the matter and then snaps it shut again.  

“Well, I’ll leave you to your music,” Matt says, nodding at the earbud lying in Andrew’s lap.

Andrew lets him go. He should really try to get some sleep, but every time he closes his eyes and tries to drift away his heart hammers in his chest. He gets this swooping, falling feeling in his gut like he’s on a rollercoaster that won’t stop going down. He tries to focus on the music and the steadying feeling of his feet upon the floor but no matter what he does, his queasiness doesn’t subside.

There are still hours left to go before they reach Tokyo.

 

…

 

Andrew strides over to baggage claim, tired and sore. He never did get any sleep, and remaining tense in his seat for the entire flight has turned his muscles to aching concrete. Thankfully, it’s night time in Tokyo so he can crash once they get to hotel. Unlike his teammates who slept on the plane, he shouldn’t have any jet lag, which is good, since their first game against New Zealand is literally tomorrow.

He watches the luggage going round and round on the carousel as he waits for his case. Typically, his stuff seems to be dead last. His teammates stand in a fractured cluster by the exit, pointing and cooing as they catch their first glimpses of the famous city lights.

“Have you seen my bag?”

The haughty question is thrown at him from the left. He lets his gaze flick over there coolly, but he already knows who it is. Neil is glaring at Andrew as if he’s hidden his stupid bag. He wishes he had.

“What does it look like?” Andrew asks, disinterested.

“It’s black and navy blue, with the Capercaillies logo on the side,” Neil explains. “You should be familiar with the logo considering we’ve trounced you so often.”

This isn’t even true, but Andrew lets it slide.

“Ah, yes, that one,” Andrew replies blandly. “I think I saw airport security hauling it away for a check.”

Neil’s eyes widen a fraction and then narrow into a fierce glare.

“Fuck you, asshole,” he snaps, just as his ugly bag comes into view.

He grabs it and slings it across his shoulder.

“Careful, Josten,” Andrew calls after him as he begins to storm away. “If the press hear one of your trademark witticisms, it will inevitably end up on a t-shirt.”

Surprisingly, this happens quite a lot. The press run a story claiming _you’ll never believe what Neil Josten has said this time!_ and the fans lap it up. They love that kind of shit. The next game everyone is wearing a t-shirt with his most recent colourful insult spat across the front. Personally, Andrew doesn’t think any of it is particularly interesting; Neil’s just a jock mouthing off as far as he’s concerned.

Though he can’t talk, really. That airport security comment was maybe a little below the belt. The Neil Josten story isn’t exactly a national secret. Though it had completely gone over his head at the time, a quick Google search he’d embarked on after their very first game against each other revealed everything he needed to know.

The Neil Josten story was a sensational tale of kidnap and false identities and mobsters. Andrew had even caught the made-for-TV movie once. It was predictably bad, and the directors had obviously cottoned on to how popular Daysten was, because it was one of the most homoerotic things he’d ever seen. Anyway, the gist of the tale was that while Kevin and Neil had been at Palmetto State, there had been all this drama with Neil turning out to be a runaway and the son of some wannabe crime lord. It was nothing the FBI couldn’t fix (and probably a deal or two with the Yakuza, Andrew would bet), and ever since then they’d both been the centre of the Exy world. It’s all pretty amusing because Bee had apparently been working at Palmetto around the same time.

Small world.

Apart from that, he doesn’t really care about Neil’s past. For many reasons, he knows that having significant trauma in your life doesn’t mean you also can’t be a complete asshole. Still, people have their limits, and while it’s incredibly fun to push them, he’s old enough to know that doesn’t mean you always _should_. He thinks Bee would be proud of that particular line of thought. If he shared it with her, she’d call it ‘personal growth’ and he’d mime vomiting into his hand.

His case eventually stumbles round the carousel and he grabs it off the belt with ease before making his way over to the team.

Coach is doing a role call as if they’re on some kind of kindergarten trip. He rolls his eyes but mutters his presence when she gets to his name. He’s never going to say it out loud, but he actually kind of likes Orla Ondine. She’s been there as long as he’s been Court. She’s fairly young for a coach and, as the first woman in Exy history to coach the national team, has dealt with extreme and unfair levels of criticism. She’s sometimes visibly nervous and self-doubting, but he reckons nobody notices because she puts on this loud and confident front. Andrew doesn’t mind the pretence because, at the very least, she’s capable.

“That’s everybody,” she calls out, having made a neat column of ticks next to their names. “Let’s haul ass to the hotel. I’m tired and I need something with gin in it.”

Andrew and the rest of the team follow her out into the night. Their hotel isn’t too far from the airport but they still have to take a bullet train and then flag down a parade of taxis to get there. Andrew doesn’t speak to anyone for the entire ride, though Jeremy keeps trying to include him in the conversation about tomorrow’s game. He stares at the condensation that’s streaking down the windows and making the neon lights of Tokyo blur and splinter. Eventually, his teammates doze off and the sound of their breathing is drowned out by the Japanese pop blasting out of the radio. He’s thankful it’s loud enough to also drown out his thoughts. He’s disconnecting, imagining cutting the wires that connect him to the real world and floating off into the universe.

“New Zealand suck,” someone mutters sleepily, and he’s yanked back down to Earth.

Andrew looks at the outside world: it’s a river of black, studded with dots of fractured light. He could be anywhere on Earth, he supposes, as the song on the radio fades away and is replaced by soft late-night chatter.

Andrew can’t wait to sleep. No matter how fucked up and faraway everything feels, sleep always resets everything.

Beside him, Jeremy lets loose a huffy snore.

 

…

 

The hotel lobby is cherry-blossom pink. It’s as if the entire room is blushing.

Coach pulls Kevin to the front with her as he’s the only person who knows any Japanese. Coach is muttering something into Kevin’s ear too quiet for Andrew to hear. Kevin looks uncomfortable but enters a lengthy exchange with the receptionist and is eventually presented with an armful of hotel room keys. Coach scoops them into her handbag and turns to face the team.

“Anybody for a nightcap?” she asks, grinning fiercely.

Andrew looks around at his teammates. Half of them look as dead on their feet as he feels, but they all nod and mutter affirmatively. He’s about half an hour away from passing out but he supposes a whisky before bed would be okay. Especially if Coach is paying.

They’re the only ones in the bar. It’s an extravagant set-up that looks more like a nightclub than a hotel bar. The pink walls of the lobby melt into chrome almost immediately, and the entire space is lit up with green and violet neon lights. It’s a fraction too warm and Andrew sighs, loosening the zipper on his Team USA windbreaker he was basically forced to wear for the entire journey.

The bartender speaks English, so they each order a drink and sit in a sleepy cluster around a table that’s next to an indoor koi pond. Andrew stares at the golden fish doing figures-of-eight in the shimmering water as Coach starts blathering about room arrangements.

“So you’ll be rooming in pairs-” she’s saying and Andrew’s hand stills around the double shot of Johnnie Walker he’s holding.

“You skimping this time round or something, Coach?” he finds himself asking, a dangerous edge to his voice. He gestures to their fancy surroundings. “Should have picked a cheaper hotel.”

“Got nothing to do with money, smartass,” she says, almost fondly. “It’s for team spirit. On a good day, you all play like talented strangers. On a bad day, you’re about an inch away from total discord. I want you to fix it. I want us to present ourselves as a united front for this World Cup. Give them something to worry about.”

Realising she’s deadly serious, Andrew starts scanning the room to quickly decide who he hates the least. As he’s doing so, he realises he doesn’t need to. Everyone’s already staring at him: half of them looking shifty and the other half looking delighted.

“This is a fucking set-up, isn’t it?” he asks, settling his drink on the table so he’s not tempted to throw it at someone. “Josten and I are rooming together, aren’t we?”

“I said we want to get rid of the friction,” Coach tells him, mirroring his dark tone. “Got a problem? I don't care. You two need to sort out your issues. Maybe sharing a room is the best way to do that.”

Neil, who until this point has been basically asleep standing up, finally opens his mouth.

“Are you kidding, Coach?” he complains. “That will just make things worse. We’ll end up killing each other.”

“Not if you want to keep playing in this tournament you won’t,” she warns, turning on her heel to face Neil.

“Can’t I just room with Kevin?” Neil mutters, glaring at Andrew from across the glittering pond. “We’re never going to achieve harmony. Especially if you try to force it like this.”

“That’s very deep, Neil,” Coach goes on, flicking her ponytail over her shoulder, “but this wasn’t just my idea. Every single one of your teammates voted on this, and it was a unanimous decision.”

Neil opens his mouth and then closes it again, his features blooming with fury. He whirls around and looks at Kevin accusingly.

“We barely scraped by in the qualifiers,” Kevin says, quiet but firm. “I want to win. Don’t you?”

Neil looks like he’s going to snap at him but then he turns to consider Andrew. _Very_ _smart_ , Andrew thinks, glowering at Kevin. To imply the conflict between them is costing them points - whole games, even - is the best way to get Neil to do what they want. _He’s_ not so easy, however.

“ _I_ don’t care about winning,” he says.

“Do you care about your sponsorship deals?” Coach snaps. “Because they were for the Andrew Minyard who plays for the US Court and takes them to victory at the World Cup. Not the Andrew Minyard whose ass is on a plane ride home.”

So Coach has a few tricks up her sleeve too. Interesting.

He downs his shot slowly, all eyes on him.

“You want harmony?” he asks her. “Prepare for things to get ten times worse.”

“That’s a risk I’ll take,” she says, unzipping her bag and tossing him a room key. “The rest of you pair up any way you like.”

He huffs out a laugh at that, because he truly hadn’t expected any of this. Part of him thinks it’s negligence. Part of him thinks that it at least keeps him on his toes.

Still, his hands instinctively reach for his armbands, for phantom knives. He knows they’re not there, but his skin begins to twitch from their absence anyway. It’s taken him and Bee years to work up to this point. He’s been ' _trying_ '. He hates that word as much as the rest of them.

It’s not like he thinks Neil Josten would actually try to hurt him - he could take him if he tried, anyway - it’s just that he hasn’t been made to share a room with someone he didn’t want to, unarmed, since… well. A long time ago.

He slams the empty glass on the table and gets to his feet. He makes his way back to the lobby and calls the elevator. His reflection glares back at him from the mirrored walls as the floor numbers change. There are shiny indigo marks underneath his eyes and his hair is slightly tousled from the flight. He feels quietly desperate for a cigarette but Coach would kill him if she caught him smoking, especially in the public eye (he’s already spotted a gaggle of reporters and paparazzos outside their hotel). It would have to wait until he can work out how to evade them and find a secret place to smoke in peace. The elevator stops and he wanders down the hallway looking for his room, flinging the door open once he finds it.

The lights are off, but the window is open. The entire room is drenched in dark blue light and a pair of thin curtains flutter in the breeze. Outside, there are what seems like a billion lights, mostly bright white but also slanting lines of neon in every colour of the rainbow. He imagines it’s like being at the edge of space, watching the sequinned constellations of stars, only there are billboards and towers and hundreds of buildings huddled together for miles around. Staring back at him are a thousand words he doesn’t understand.

“Why are you standing in the dark?” Neil asks.

Before Andrew can respond, Neil flips the switch, obliterating the dark and dreamy midnight glow and bathing the room in harsh light.

Andrew takes a moment to observe his surroundings. There are two beds - thank _fuck_ \- each adorned with a puffy white duvet and two plump pillows. There’s a closet, a full-length mirror, two nightstands and a television mounted on the wall. Through an open door is a bathroom containing a bath, a wooden bench, and also a shower. Separate to that is a smaller room with a couple of sinks and a closet space with a toilet. Altogether, the bathroom is almost as big as the bedroom and Andrew wrinkles his nose. The suite is big enough for two people but maybe not quite big enough for two people who hate each other.

“Look, slippers,” Neil says, and Andrew shoots him a look. Neil is sitting on the bed closest to the door and pulling off his sneakers to slip on the indoor slippers provided by the hotel.

“Just because we’re being made to share a space doesn’t mean we actually have to talk,” Andrew tells him, pulling his case over to the window and beginning to unpack.

“Maybe they have a point,” Neil says in this small conciliatory voice. It’s calmer than Andrew’s ever heard him, but it doesn’t piss him off any less. “Maybe learning to get along would be good for our game-”

“No,” Andrew cuts him off. “No Exy talk.”

“Then why are you even here?” Neil huffs, flopping down on his bed, clearly already tired of trying to play nice.

Andrew doesn’t answer him and goes to the bathroom to change into his pyjamas. He pulls on his pyjama shorts and an old tee before switching his armbands. Like the Neil Josten story, the tale of Andrew and Aaron Minyard isn’t much of a secret either. A lot of information was spilled during Aaron’s trial. Online, people had filled the gaps in the story with speculation. That some of the truth had trickled into the real world made him feel like a zoo animal to be gaped at, but in some weird way, it had also been a relief. Though he still kept everything buried in the dark, so it could carry out its continuous damage inside of him, he was exhausted from parrying questions about his childhood with either stony silence or the threat of violence. Now, nobody broached that subject with him. Andrew wasn’t sure if Neil had ever Googled him or asked around or whatever, but he didn’t care. Neil Josten could think whatever he wanted. Just like the rest of them.

When he walks back into the room, Neil is still in his US Court gear, lying on his bed and flicking through an Exy magazine. His leg jitters rapidly from side to side. It’s so annoying that Andrew climbs into bed and flicks off the light without asking.

“I’m reading,” Neil snaps, turning it back on.

“Tough,” Andrew mutters. “I’m sleeping.”

“Why do you even need the rest if you’re just going to put in zero effort tomorrow anyway?” Neil asks darkly, pointedly turning the page of his magazine.

“How about this for effort? For every minute you keep me awake, I’ll let in a goal,” Andrew suggests.

He glares at Neil, who looks physically pained at such a suggestion. He indignantly puts his magazine away and pads over to the bathroom to change. Andrew watches him go, his amusement thinning a little. He hears the bathroom door click shut and the rustling of clothes, followed by the faucet running. Neil emerges a few minutes later wearing a long-sleeved jersey top and baggy sweatpants. He tugs off his bandana and his too-long auburn hair falls in his face, casting dark shadows across his ghost-coloured scars and dimming the blue fire of his eyes. Andrew feels the sudden urge to make a spiteful comment rise up inside him but he swallows it like bile. He settles for watching Neil as he potters around putting his toothbrush away and digging out his phone charger, making sure his expression is deliberately flat.

“Tick tock, Josten,” Andrew says, pointing a finger to the light. “Every minute, remember.”

“You really are such an asshole, you know that?” Neil mutters, turning off the light.

The room turns dark and Andrew rolls onto his side. He looks once more at the sparkling skyline before shutting his eyes.

The truth is that he does know that; he really does. He just doesn’t care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come chat to me on [tumblr](http://lolainslackss.tumblr.com) :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: references to scarring
> 
> [fic playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/1170883658/playlist/5ZIxYRoy3OYDQkpfPpJSrQ)

When Neil wakes up, his heart is racing. The dark, sticky feeling of a lingering nightmare twists through his veins. He can’t remember what the dream was about - the images and feelings fragment and shatter - but its residue is inside him, black and smudged like a set of inky fingerprints.

He wants to run, but he can’t. The paparazzi already know where they are and he’d rather not deal with them. He sits up in bed and casts a weary glance over at Andrew Minyard. If he woke when Neil stirred, he’s not showing it. His body is very still, his breathing slow and even. The sun shining through the lacy, patterned curtains creates a field of shadows across his bed. Silhouette blossoms spill over the crumpled white sheets and tiny blooms of faded black are stencilled in his blond hair. Neil slowly gets out of bed and tiptoes to the bathroom, careful not to make a peep of noise. The last thing he needs on the morning of their first game is Andrew Minyard spewing whatever creative vitriol he can come up with at such an early hour his way.

He finds himself changing into his running gear anyway. By this point it’s habit. He quickly exits their room and jogs down the stairs to the hotel lobby. He threads together some basic Japanese from what Kevin has taught him and manages to get directed to the hotel gym.

As he runs, the uncomfortable, anxious feeling left behind by the nightmare he’d had leaves his system and is replaced by regular game day jitters. It’s his first time at the World Cup since making Court and he’s excited and nervous at the same time. Underneath that, he’s also trying to unpack his current predicament: Andrew Minyard.

Yesterday evening, he’d felt sore with fury over his teammates duping them both. Realistically, he knows they have a point. Everybody is aware that Neil has a problem with Andrew and vice versa.

If anyone were to ask him why he hates Andrew Minyard, he’d reply, _where do I start?_ The guy has a terrible attitude and he also doesn’t give one single fuck about the game.

It’s the most frustrating thing in the world. Neil remembers his first game playing against the Hummingbirds. He’d heard rumours of Andrew’s amazing goalkeeping skills and was actually looking forward to seeing how he played. The thing was, Andrew _was_ amazing. If he genuinely tried, though, he’d be better than amazing. The aggravating truth of the situation was that he’d play entire halves without letting a goal in and spend others shrugging when he failed to block easy shots or aim _for_ the strikers rather than toward them. Andrew couldn’t care less about Exy. Neil could tell.

Alone, Andrew’s inconsistency doesn’t warrant hatred, but it _was_ enough to make them clash. That’s when the real problems started, because here’s the other thing: Andrew Minyard is an asshole. Everything that comes out of his mouth is either cold or sarcastic. He knows exactly how to push Neil’s buttons on the Court and doesn’t hesitate when slinging poisonous remarks his way.

He also had a vicious right hook.

They’d fought physically a few times. There had even been articles about it: _Exy’s smallest, angriest players and why they have so many issues_. It was just another excuse to dredge up both of their pasts, really. Neil had learned to ignore all of that shit, (though in his opinion, they were better than all the fucking Daysten articles at least).

He jabs his finger against the treadmill control panel and the belt speeds up until he’s basically sprinting. He can’t stop thinking about the World Cup and how he has to somehow _fix_ things with the angry blond goalkeeper he’s rooming with, already keenly aware he’ll be the one doing all the work there. He also can’t stop thinking about the usual stuff: the Capercaillies and Kevin and how he’s so lonely it feels like it creates actual gaps inside him. He can’t stop thinking about how these gaps let the monsters in, and how, even now, he can still smell the smoke, blood and burning flesh as if it were yesterday.

He doesn’t want to let his past define his present, no matter how stubbornly the memories  refuse to fade away. 

So he runs, runs, runs, until his thoughts quieten.

He has a game to win.

 

…

 

When he returns to the room, Andrew is lying on top of his now-made bed in a faded black tee and some scuffed jeans. His hair is slightly damp from the shower and his seemingly permanent black bands snake up his arms from his wrists to his elbows. Neil has heard plenty of rumours about those armbands: that they’re a way for the Hummingbirds to tell Andrew and Aaron apart, that they’re secret sheaths for tiny sharp knives, or that they hide scarring too dreadful to imagine. Even though he hates Andrew’s guts, Neil would never pry.

He knows all about hiding scars from the world.

Andrew doesn’t look up from his phone as Neil lets the door swing shut, even though it slams. He’s playing some mobile game that’s gushing out obnoxious music. It’s as instantly irritating to Neil as Andrew himself is.

Neil follows Andrew’s lead and ignores his new roommate, rummaging through his stuff to find clean clothes to change into.

“You found a gym,” Andrew says. It’s almost a question.

“How did you know?”

Andrew exaggeratedly looks at Neil’s running gear, his eyes flitting briefly from his beat-up running shoes to his shorts. Neil just rolls his eyes and shrugs.

“Maybe,” Andrew goes on, returning to his game, “you’re not as subtle as you think you are.”

“It’s on the ground floor,” Neil says begrudgingly, tossing some fresh sweats onto his crumpled-up duvet. “You should probably get a workout in. There are only a few hours until we have to go-”

Andrew waves him off before he can finish so he makes a beeline for the bathroom.

He lets the shower water run hot until his lungs fill with steam and his muscles loosen. Once he’s finished getting ready, he heads back into the bedroom to tidy away his things.

Andrew’s already gone.

 

...

 

The stadium they’re playing their first game in is about an hour’s ride from their hotel. Neil catches up with Kevin in the hallway and they chat about the striker subs as they make their way downstairs to the team bus. Ondine let them have some input when she was deciding on a starting line and substitutes for the tournament. Neil wasn’t surprised to see she’d ended up picking a couple of players they’d requested. She was a great coach precisely because she listened, thought things through, and made good calls. He liked her a lot more than Gregor Weiss, the Capercaillies coach.

Though he wasn’t as fond of her as the last great coach he’d had. That he and Kevin had both had.

“How’s it going with Andrew?” Kevin asks eventually, eyeing Neil guiltily.

“I can handle him.”

It’s not quite what Kevin means. What’s he’s really asking is if Neil can smooth down the jagged edges of his and Andrew’s calamitous relationship. Neil’s not sure how to answer that - not yet - so he settles for evasion.

“If he causes you any trouble, I’ve got your back,” Kevin goes on, looking ahead. “You know that, right?”

“Oh? Is that why you voted on us rooming together?” Neil asks, failing to keep the sourness out of his voice.

“You _know_ it’s a good idea for you two to start cooperating,” Kevin insists. “Harmony on the court starts off the court. You of all people know that.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Neil says dismissively. Knowing it’s for the best doesn’t make it less of a bitter pill to swallow. “I’ll figure it out.”

Kevin’s presses his lips together in a thin line, unconvinced.

“It’s not like we’re swinging fists at each other,” Neil assures him. “He pretty much ignores me.”

Kevin doesn’t reply to that either and they enter the elevator.

“Who did you end up rooming with in the end, anyway?” Neil asks, curious.

“Thea,” Kevin mumbles reluctantly.

“Of _course_ ,” Neil says. “And I suppose Matt is with Dan?”

Kevin nods. He gazes at his reflection in the mirrored walls of the elevator instead of looking at Neil.

“Perfect,” Neil mutters darkly. He didn’t resent his friends’ happiness, but a few more cold shadows slid in between the gaps, making his insides feel like a dry well. “All the couples are paired off while I have to room with an asshole who wouldn’t hesitate killing me.”

“I thought you said you _weren’t_ swinging fists,” Kevin retorts.

The elevator doors slide open and Neil responds with a cold, “Yet.”

Outside, the sky is bone white. Andrew stands by the bus with one knee bent, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. Neil wonders where he got it and if Coach knows he’s flaunting his bad habit out in the open. Andrew’s US Court windbreaker is pulled on over an old Hummingbirds hoodie. He barely spares Kevin and Neil a glance as they wander past him, but Neil notices how his cigarette has around one draw left and holds his breath.

On the way to the stadium, half of the team sit in a nervous silence while the other half chant the fight songs of their various home teams. Neil stares out of the window, watching cars and bikes whiz by them and listening to his teammates off-key singing. They get to their destination in no time at all, and are rushed into the players’ entrance. Neil isn’t surprised to see the changing room has stalls; it’s a change he himself pushed for in all official Exy stadiums and by now, it’s practically staple. He changes out, slipping on his US team gear for the first time. It’s a pearlescent white with his name and number in bold red and blue lettering. He rejoins his team with his heart banging in his chest, clattering violently like a staple gun.

Feeling restless, he sneaks away to take a peek at the stalls and the court. It’s bigger than any he’s ever played in and it’s completely full. The sight nearly trips him up. The US side is a flood of white, blue and red; there are streamers and banners as well as waving pom poms and giant  foam fingers. The sound of music and cheering and excited chatter is deafening.

He’s here - at the centre of everything - and the whole world is watching him.

He hopes he doesn’t fuck everything up.

 

...

 

The first half is a disaster.

New Zealand don’t rank very highly in the national team standings, but they start off strong: they’re not aggressive, but they play enthusiastically, and Neil can’t help but be envious of them. They have great energy and communicate well. In contrast, the US team is a shambles.

He and Jeremy manage to score an impressive amount of points considering their dealers look like they’re half-asleep. Andrew, meanwhile, keeps deliberately passing to anyone who is _not_ Neil, even when Neil has a clear path to the goal or is in Andrew’s line of sight. Around half-way through the first half, Jeremy is switched for Kevin - who brings a certain ferocity to the court that they need - but by the time the halftime buzzer shrieks, they’re still down by three points.

“Are you kidding me, guys?” Ondine snarls over the stamping and chanting that carries over from the stands. “You know you could outplay a team like New Zealand any day of the week.”

She swiftly moves on from admonishing them to strategising, letting them know how she expects the second half to play out. Neil listens and grits his teeth. If they lose this first game, they’re done for. The other teams in their group are Japan and France: better teams than the US by far. Their plan was to get a lot of points in this game to get a headstart on overall points and make it past the group stage.

Neil’s on the bench for the start of the second half, and so is Andrew. They sit side-by-side, ignoring each other. Neil knows he only has ten minutes and he knows everybody’s waiting on him to fix things, but he still feels like he can’t yield and he _knows_ Andrew won’t. Their collective stubbornness could burn the entire stadium down.

Neil downs his water quietly as he watches his sub, Laney Parks, dash around the pitch with a grin on her face. When Parks scores a point, Neil curls his hand into a triumphant fist. He picked well, and the sudden rush of pride distracts him from the task at hand.

For a second, at least.

“Didn’t I tell you two to kiss and make up?” Ondine snaps, striding up next to them and folding her arms across her chest.

Neil blinks and looks at Andrew. He’s slouched on the bench with his eyes closed, looking like he’d rather be a million miles away from all of this. Exasperated, Neil gestures pointedly to Andrew’s entire Andrewness, but Ondine just raises an eyebrow expectantly.

“Can you give us a minute?” Neil asks dourly. Ondine mimics his laboured sigh, but she moves away to give them some space.

“What do I have to do to get you to work with me?” Neil grits out, staring ahead.

“You can sleep in the bathroom,” Andrew replies immediately.

“Why?”

“To let me sleep in peace.”

“I’m a quiet sleeper. I don’t snore-”

“You _breathe_.”

“I’m _not_ sleeping in the bathroom.”

“Why not? The tub is big enough.”

“ _Andrew_.”

“You have nothing I need,” Andrew snaps coldly, baring his teeth at Neil as if he’s a small animal he can frighten away.

Neil scowls and stands up. Andrew sits forward and watches Neil’s pacing, drumming his fingers against his knee in a steady rhythm.

“How about a favour on credit?” Neil suggests finally.

Andrew’s fingers stop tapping and Neil feels certain he’s piqued his interest. They hold eye contact for a moment or two before Andrew leans back and closes his eyes again. Neil waits, sure he’s managed to gain some ground, but he doesn’t get a reply and a few minutes later he’s ushered back onto the court. He clacks his racquet against his sub’s on his way out and sprints toward Kevin.

He scores two more points before Andrew is sent back into goal, closing the gap so that they’re drawing.

The next time Andrew gets the ball, he aims straight for Neil.

It soars through the air in one perfect line, like a single beam of yellow light cutting through a gap in the curtains, and bounces into Neil’s racquet. Neil spins on his heel and uses his ten steps without anyone touching him. The far-court wall flashes brilliant crimson as the ball smashes against it and his mark gapes at him as he smothers his grin with a look of cool triumph.

They win the match.

 

…

 

His team celebrate the only way they know how: with copious amounts of alcohol. Though their next game is a few days away, Neil abstains. He’s always been a bit of a lightweight, and sometimes the heady effects of spirits muddy his mind. Certain memories stir; they’re blood swirling through dirty water. He cradles a glass of ice water and listens to his teammates yammer on excitedly about their win. They only won by a few points, so they didn’t create as much of a lead as they’d hoped. Even so, a win’s a win. They’ll worry about the other matches later.

Neil glances around, lost in thought. The hotel bar is much busier than it was the previous night. Emerald and amethyst light slices the room into triangular, shadowy portions. Near his feet, golden and milky spotted koi swim through darkened waters. It’s hypnotising, almost. Watching it makes Neil feel oddly sleepy and he yawns into his fist.

Across the room, Andrew sits alone, swirling a large shot of whisky in his hand and quietly studying the room. Their gazes latch onto each other for a heartbeat or so before Neil looks away. Part of him feels proud that he got Andrew to work with him and the other feels furious that he now owes Andrew a favour.

He’s lost track of the conversation he was part of and now Jeremy is challenging Dan to an arm wrestling competition. Across from them, in one of the plush booths, Coach is pulling someone into a headlock. She gets this way after a win: tipsy and rambunctious, always beaming. She radiates pride. In a darkened corner, Kevin is beaming too. He grins as he buries his face in the spot where Thea’s neck meets her shoulder. The intimacy of it makes Neil look away.

Somehow, he is drawn to Andrew again. Maybe it’s because he’s the only other person seemingly alone within the sea of people. He’s cut-off. Unreachable. A phantom limb. That Neil relates to that makes agitation spark angrily underneath his skin. Andrew looking like they’ve just lost a game rather than won one makes it even worse. It feels so bad - so itchy and uncontrollable - that when Andrew gets up to leave, Neil follows. Andrew notices but makes no comment. They ride the elevator up to their floor in stony silence.

Once Andrew opens the door, Neil’s temper flares to life, spreading through him like the beginnings of a forest fire. He reaches out and shoves Andrew, causing him to stumble into their darkened room. When Andrew turns, Neil braces himself for a fight, but nothing comes. Andrew just glares at him, anger crackling in his gilded eyes.

“Why don’t you care?” Neil spits out. It’s a question he’s wanted to ask for years now and it pours out of him like red wine spilling across a white carpet.

Andrew’s electric stare wilts into a bored, cold gaze. He’s quiet for a while, and Neil thinks he’s not going to get an answer again. Then, Andrew takes two paces forward and places his hands flat against Neil’s chest. Neil tries to jerk away from his touch but he just digs his fingertips in harder.

“Make me care,” Andrew tells him, shoving him backwards.

Neil loses his balance and falls against the open door, causing it to clatter shut.

As Neil opens his mouth to respond, Andrew gives one firm shake of his head and locks himself in the bathroom. He’s in there a while, so Neil makes use of the empty bedroom and quickly changes into his pyjamas.

Andrew cuts the light off as soon as he comes out of the bathroom, so Neil follows his lead and climbs into bed.

_Make me care_ , Andrew had said.

It sounds so simple. After all, Neil can’t imagine _not_ caring about Exy. It’s his entire life and his reason to keep going. It was what saved him when his whole world had been about to rot like a dead thing. As he tosses and turns under the plush duvet, listening to Andrew’s breathing even out, though, he realises it’s not that simple at all.

He doesn’t have a clue what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a [pinterest board](https://www.pinterest.co.uk/rbonallie/hello-world/) for this fic, if anyone is interested in seeing it haha
> 
> also, a [tumblr](http://lolainslackss.tumblr.com)
> 
> and finally! happy new year, btw. I hope your 2019 is good. I want it to be good.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: masturbation, references to homophobia
> 
> ty to @alexjosten for your advice on this one

Andrew wakes up with a hard-on.

In the other bed, Neil is just a tuft of maple-syrup-and-cinnamon hair sticking out of a mass of white fluffy blankets. Andrew stretches and checks the time; it’s just after nine. As it’s a rest day, there’s plenty of time to snooze for a few more hours, but his erection is being particularly distracting. He looks down at his straining pyjama shorts. Usually his morning wood just goes away on its own, but today it’s insistent. He gets this tight, squirming feeling just below his gut and looks to the bathroom.

The door locks just fine, and he’s never really loud. If he were to make any noise, the shower is powerful enough to muffle it. Besides, Neil is _asleep_. Rationally, Andrew knows he could take care of himself without Neil having any idea, but something about wanking himself off within ten feet of the guy feels wrong.

That said, he gets to his feet and silently tiptoes to the bathroom, locking the door behind him as quietly as he can.

He takes off his clothes and starts running the shower, lazily palming himself as he lets the water drench his hair and rush down his body. He knows sorting himself out will be quick once he gets going but he doesn’t know what to think about. He braces himself, one hand on the wet tiled wall, and starts jerking himself off, wondering if it’s possible to come from effort alone. An orgasm doesn’t really start to build, but his hard-on doesn’t go away either.

He sucks in a huffy breath through his lips and closes his eyes. In the back of his mind, his thoughts turn to Neil. That is, he hopes Neil hasn’t woken up yet. He might start wondering what the hold up is. Nobody showers for long, not unless they’re clearly doing what Andrew’s doing. Andrew knows he’s got a reputation for giving nothing away, but he momentarily wonders if it’ll be written all over his face the next time their gazes bristle. That inevitably leads to him wondering if _Neil_ has gotten off in their suite yet. If it hasn’t happened yet, it’ll surely happen at some point. They’re here for another three weeks, after all. Annoyed, he pushes such thoughts aside and lets his mind wander.

He tries to think about some of his recent hook-ups. He doesn’t meet up with guys very often these days. Issues aside, he’s famous enough that he gets recognised a lot. The last thing he needs is some kiss-and-tell story leaking to the shithead press. Still, there are some bars he frequents where the guys are either totally clueless, or, more rarely, trustworthy enough. In the latter category, there’s Roland. He’s known Roland for years - long enough that he’s kind of boring by now, to be honest. In the former category, there’s his last meaningless hook-up: some passably handsome guy who was, thankfully, completely sports-adverse. That said, their two-minute fumble had nearly put Andrew to sleep.

Unsurprisingly, neither of the two are doing Andrew any favours right now.

He shakes his head and starts over, thinking of various hot guys he’s seen while out and about. That starts to do the trick. Then-

His mind plucks an image out, seemingly at random: blue eyes glaring and a smirk like a curved blade.

His hand goes still.

No.

If he’s going to think of _him_ , he’d rather do it a little differently: caught unaware, not running his mouth for once, like when he’s stretching before a game, silent and focused, the planes of his sculpted legs looking taut and graceful and inviting.

Okay, _yes_ , Andrew hates the guy. He hates him more than ever now that he’s in his face every time he fucking turns around. But not for the first time in his life, and with his hard-on throbbing in his hand, he’s reminded of the fact that Neil Josten is, well-

Hot as fuck, really.

Barring his attitude, that is.

So he goes there, and he thinks of Neil in his place: one hand against the tile, one hand wrapped around himself. Legs trembling a little, the steam and the hot water making his skin feel too-hot in a good way. It feels okay to get himself off thinking of Neil as just another pretty face, but then, quite unintentionally, he thinks of them _both_ in the shower, their bodies slick and hard. It wouldn’t be nice or gentle. It would be fuelled with anger, hate, and before he can tune his thoughts into something a little less fucked up, he comes.

He rinses off his hand in the spray and then washes himself all over, feeling blank and empty. He dries off and uses the wet towel to wipe down the fogged-up mirror. Looking at his reflection, he notices his skin is flushed red from both the orgasm and the hot water. He dresses in black jeans and a white, long-sleeved t-shirt, hoping the tell-tale blush will fade. He’s pleased to note that there’s been no sound of stirring from the bedroom, at least.

Unexpectedly, when Andrew returns to the other part of the suite, Neil is sitting up in bed, awake. He jolts a little when the bathroom door opens and slides Andrew a peculiar look.

There’s no way he could know, is what Andrew thinks immediately. The door was locked and the spray was too loud. Besides, Andrew hadn’t even made any noise.

“Shower is yours,” Andrew says blandly, as if to test the waters.

“Oh,” Neil says, and that’s when Andrew realises that it’s awkwardness colouring his expression. “I’ll go in a minute.”

Andrew narrows his eyes at Neil. He’s got the blankets pulled tightly across his body and he has his laptop placed very deliberately on his lap.

It would appear Andrew wasn’t the only one who woke up with morning wood.

Andrew stops his mouth from twisting into a knowing smirk and shrugs instead, feigning ignorance. He grabs a tub of hair gel from his suitcase and slicks his hair back, out of his face. He wouldn’t usually put product in his hair, but today is different. It requires a disguise.

After the gel has dried, he pulls a black denim cap over his head, letting the peak sit low. Neil watches him suspiciously as he finishes the look off with giant aviator shades.

Andrew doesn’t want to satisfy his curiosity but he hates being stared at. “What?” he asks.

Neil scoffs. “What are you _wearing_?”

“Need cigarettes,” Andrew replies.

He’d managed to pilfer one from a very reluctant Jean yesterday, but he was going to need some of his own if he was going to survive the tournament.

“You’re going out _there_?” Neil asks, stunned.

“Why not?” Andrew retorts, shrugging. “It’s all just dumbass journalists who are too stupid to recognise me like this and teenage girls who want you to sign their Daysten fanfiction.”

Neil frowns at that but he doesn’t respond. He rolls out of bed and Andrew’s gaze dips to his crotch momentarily.

Apparently, Neil’s hard-on wasn’t as determined as Andrew’s.

“Your funeral,” Neil mutters as he grabs his towel and pushes past Andrew to lock himself inside the bathroom.

Andrew contemplates hiding some of his things while he’s in there.

Instead, he takes the high road and leaves.

 

…

 

He was being flippant when he’d said the journalists wouldn’t recognise him in his disguise. They probably wouldn’t, but they were also going to hungrily pounce on anyone who came down the hotel’s marbled black staircase. Pushing past them without making a comment would be suspicious; opening his mouth would give him away. Either way, Andrew had to find an alternate exit.

He takes a look around to make sure the coast is clear and then ducks into what he assumes is an employees-only hallway. The sign is in Japanese, so he can’t be sure, but the no-entry sign makes it clear it’s off-limits.

He jogs down several floors of stairs until he reaches a laundry room. There’s only one other person there: a young woman pulling bundles of white bed sheets out of the dryer. She stiffens when she sees him and stands up straight, leaving the laundry at her feet. He can’t understand what she says but he can tell when he’s being scolded. He waves a dismissive hand at her and traipses out of what looks like an exit, finding himself in an empty backstreet. He keeps walking.

When he turns onto the street he’s sucked into the crowd. He wanders a while, on the lookout for a convenience store. On his way he passes arcades and bars and subway stations, as well as a traditional-looking sushi restaurant sitting alongside a McDonalds and a Starbucks. He eventually stumbles across a crêpe stand that offers different savoury and sweet flavours. Yesterday morning when he ordered breakfast, he was brought a steaming bowl of cloudy miso soup, a sliver of grilled fish and some sticky beans sitting on top of a bed of rice. It hadn’t been his favourite breakfast of all-time, so he’d skipped this morning.

Through a lot of pointing, he manages to order a giant, rolled crêpe stuffed with cream and pieces of chocolate cake, drizzled in glistening caramel sauce. It’s so unwieldy he has to take a break and sit on a bench to eat it.

It’s hot and humid and he deeply regrets the long sleeves. When sweat starts to bead on his forehead, he ditches the sticky crêpe wrapper and continues his hunt for cigarettes. He doesn’t have to go far; near the crossing is a dinky convenience store. Andrew enters and is instantly greeted by the cashier. He glances around, lost, before heading over to her. He’d meant to learn some basic Japanese for his stay - Aaron had even installed some app on his phone - but he hadn’t gotten around to it. Subsequently, he doesn’t know what else to do other than mime taking a drag. The cashier smiles, amused.

“Tobacco?” she says, understanding.

Andrew nods and she spreads out a variety of cigarette packets on the counter like she’s dealing cards. Andrew points to the recognisable Marlboro Golds and hands over some Yen.

The cashier takes the money and mimes flicking a lighter as Andrew slips the cigarettes into his pocket. He nods his head and she passes him a cheap plastic lighter alongside his change.

It’s far too hot to explore the crowded streets of Tokyo so he decides to head back to the hotel. He sneaks in the same way he escaped and luckily the laundry room is empty, the machines whirring round and filling the room with a steady rhythmic hum.

He hikes up the stairs, bypassing his floor altogether and eventually reaching the very top and what he guesses is the door to the hotel’s roof. He pushes down the horizontal lever and it opens easily. The view makes him feel dizzy so he lights a cigarette and takes a deep drag to steady himself. Tokyo spreads out before him for what seems like forever, the sharp crimson tip of Tokyo Tower jutting out from the buildings like a rocket set to leave Earth’s orbit. He looks up at the sky, which is dotted with cotton wool clouds and hazy with sunlight, and imagines leaving too. He can see himself up there floating with the space junk: all those broken bits of satellites just swirling around. Then he looks down again and his stomach does a backflip. He’s too far up. Too close to the edge. His heartbeat quickens and the blood in his veins turns to cement. He grinds his teeth together and tries to push the nausea down as he slowly walks backwards and concentrates on the feel of his feet against the rooftop. He feels like his knees might give way but they don’t. They carry him all the way back to the door.

He breathes out one last lungful of smoke and tosses the bent stub to the side. He’s suddenly so tired he feels like he might collapse, so he marches back down the stairs and goes straight to bed.

 

…

 

He wakes when Neil returns to the room.

Casting a cursory glance at the window, he notices the sky is now streaked with violet and fuchsia, nebulous dark spots filling in the gaps. He’s slept until twilight and his body knows it. Grogginess travels through his limbs at a slow trudge.

Neil clicks the door shut, bypassing the mirror even though his hair is sticking up at odd angles. He goes straight to the dresser to clip his phone onto its charger, not acknowledging Andrew’s presence. Andrew rolls on his side to watch him shuffle around.

Neil turns, and because Andrew doesn’t have time to look away, their eyes meet.

“So, uh, we’re going to have drinks in the hotel bar again tonight,” Neil says, not breaking eye contact. He sounds wary, pained, like he already knows he’s going to lose this one. “The team, that is. Are you coming?”

It’s a predictable ploy to show the team they’re trying to get along even though they’re not. Andrew doesn’t bother replying and looks up at the ceiling.

“Andrew,” Neil continues, not willing to let it drop. “I’m inviting you to have drinks with us. Are you coming?”

“Wow,” Andrew says sarcastically. “An invitation to drink with _you_ and the team? How could I pass?”

“Hey. I’m trying,” Neil replies, looking away and sounding defeated. “I thought you might try too.”

“I’ll _try_ some of the bar’s whiskies,” Andrew tells him. The sight of Neil looking like that - all earnest and willing - makes his skin crawl. “Stay away from me,” he adds, sneering slightly.

“I don’t want to be anywhere near you,” Neil bites out, the cooling embers of quelled anger flaring back to life for a second before being stamped out again. He sighs. “Just come. It might be-”

“Fun?” Andrew supplies, when Neil fails to come up with an especially persuasive adjective.

“You said you’d work with me-”

“On the _court_.”

“It’s the same thing.”

“I believe I did work with you. You’re the one who owes me, remember?”

“That’s because you haven’t cashed your favour in yet.”

When Andrew doesn’t reply, Neil just shrugs and pulls on his US Court windbreaker. How cliché that he’d be wearing that shit on a rest day. Andrew would bet he’s even been exercising. _Pathetic_ , Andrew thinks, as Neil shoots him one more exasperated look before leaving the room.

Andrew rolls off his bed and goes to the bathroom to wash the gunk out of his hair. He doesn’t particularly care what his teammates think of his appearance but Coach would pitch a fit if she cottoned on to the fact he’d been roaming the streets unattended.

When he enters the hotel bar, his teammates are in high spirits. In his experience, rest days never do anything but make athletes restless. He wanders past everyone, grunting in response to their surprised greetings, and settles down in one of the lower bar stools. He orders a double measure of a Japanese whisky he’s never tried before. It’s strong, and it easily ignites that familiar fire which spreads through his chest, tendril-like.

“I’m surprised your feet reach the floor,” Allison Reynolds remarks, appearing at his side looking utterly sloshed.

She’s a fashion school drop-out. Up and quit one day and went round the pro teams appealing for them to recruit her even though she hadn’t even played in college. Apparently her audition was killer, and she joined the LA Furies effective immediately. She’s the best defensive dealer in the game, though he’d rather swallow arsenic than tell her that to her face.

“Pleasure as always, Reynolds,” he says, raising his glass in sarcastic salutation.  

“Come play with us,” she tells him.

“No.”

“We have two bottles of vodka to get through. We’re keeping it iced.”

“Don’t care.”

“Fine. Waste your hard-earned money at the bar, then.”

He finishes his drink and signals to order another. Allison loses interest and flounces off.

He’s about half-way through his second drink when Coach hops onto the bar stool next to him.   

“Minyard,” she says, nodding. “What have _you_ been up to today?”

“Meditating,” Andrew replies, deadpan.

“Sure, sure,” she says, waving her hand as if trying to swat a bug. She seems a little tipsy. Andrew wonders how long they’ve all been drinking and if anyone would have come to get him if Neil hadn’t invited him. Not that he gives two shits.

“Why don’t you go play with them?” she suggests. “It’s not enough for just you and Neil to get along, you know.”

“Neil and I don’t get along,” Andrew reminds her.

“Yet,” Coach adds with a grin. “You did good yesterday, you know that?”

Andrew shrugs.

“You could do better if you start talking to your defence line,” she persists.

“During spin the bottle?” Andrew asks, throwing a pointed look over his shoulder.

Coach just raises her eyebrows and Andrew breathes in and out very slowly. He could just go back to the room, but there’s no booze there. Playing some ridiculous game with his teammates if probably better than sitting next to Coach and getting called out. He gets to his feet and Coach actually throws her arms up in triumph.

He joins his teammates, quietly sitting down on an arm of one of the luxurious leather sofas. It appears he was wrong before; they’re not playing spin the bottle but truth or dare. Jean is sitting cross-legged on the floor and a blindfolded Jeremy is trying to put lipstick on him. A glossy red streak smudges up Jean’s cheek and everyone laughs. Jeremy lets loose a drunken giggle and leans forward to whisper an apology to Jean.

Jean just shakes his head, looking a little overwhelmed at the proximity between the two of them. It’s a tiny bit interesting, and Andrew files it away just in case there are any bets he can get in on.

“Minyard,” Allison says, turning round whip-fast to face him. “It’s your turn.”

Andrew holds out his hand expectantly and she passes him an overly-large measure of straight vodka.

“You know the game,” she says irritably when he doesn’t say anything.

Andrew takes a sip of the vodka and waits.

“Truth, then?” Allison goes on, folding her arms. Everyone else watches on, intrigued.

“Do your worst,” Andrew concedes with an easy shrug.

“Okay,” Allison says, flashing him a wicked grin. “What did you think about the last time you jacked off?”

Andrew doesn’t even react; he doesn’t have to. Jeremy is on his feet in a second spluttering protests.

“No, no, no,” Jeremy says. He’s wearing his blindfold around his neck like a bandana. “We said nothing sexual, Allison. Take a forfeit shot.”

Allison rolls her eyes but she downs her drink obediently. “I was just wondering what makes the monster tick. What’s the point in playing a game like this if we can’t get sexual?”

“We’re pros,” Jeremy says, offering Andrew an apologetic smile. “That shit is personal.”

“Okay _pros_ ,” Allison says. “Here’s another one for you. Josten, tell me what you hate most about being famous.”

Neil, who is sitting at a table nearby with Kevin, twists round in his seat at the mention of his name.

“I’m not playing,” he mumbles.

“And you didn’t even ask truth or dare,” Jeremy says, pouting.

Andrew, whose turn has obviously been forgotten, pours himself another vodka. It’s so cold he can barely taste it. He downs it like it’s water and decants another.

By the time he bothers to start paying attention again, Allison has obviously bullied Neil and Kevin into joining the game because they’re hovering at the fringes of the group with drinks in their hands.

“Uh,” Neil starts, “I guess the whole Daysten thing is annoying.”

Andrew scoffs quietly. Figures.

“We can’t even _hug_ after a win without it being analysed to death on social media,” Neil goes on, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Plus, it’s like, do the fans like me because I’m a good player? Or because they-”

“Think you want to fuck your best friend?” Allison supplies when he can’t put it into words.

“It can be a pain,” Kevin adds, “but at least it’s good press? I thought our PR firm would want us to deny it, but actually, they think we should be playing along. Apparently having the interest of teenage girls is pretty valuable.”

There are a few laughs at that and Andrew feels fury - immediate and barbed - coil tightly in his gut. His grip tightens so hard on his glass he thinks it might shatter.

“Cute,” Andrew says, loud enough that everyone can hear him. He keeps his eyes on Kevin and smiles a nasty smile.

“What’s cute?” Kevin asks.

“That you two benefit from your little fake gay relationship while I, on the other hand, get slurs yelled at me whenever I let a goal in,” Andrew says bluntly. “It must be really fun teasing the fans without having to deal with the actual consequences of being an athlete who’s publically out.”

He swirls the liquid in his glass and then downs it in one, relishing the tense silence that follows his words. It feels good to say it, but his anger is still a boiling pit in his stomach.

His first urge is to swallow it whole.

Anger is not a foreign thing. He’s well-acquainted with anger. But this particular type of anger-

Bee would say that the rage he feels over the homophobia he’s encountered is warranted. She would say the fact he cares enough to be angry over attacks on his person shows he’s learning to value himself.

If that’s the case, he wonders why he still can’t make a bid.

He buries the fury somewhere deep and hidden, but he’s still glaring at Kevin when Neil finally speaks.  

“I never thought about it like that before,” he says, and he actually has the audacity to look troubled by it.

Andrew can’t stand it anymore. He can’t be around these people.

Someone calls after him when he gets up to leave but he ignores it. His anger has gone but in its place are all these mixed-up urges. He wants to walk to the top of the tallest building in Tokyo. He wants to get blindingly drunk. He wants to go to some nameless club and find someone to slam against the wall and jerk off.

Instead, he finds himself sitting next to Coach again.

“Well that lasted for all of about five minutes,” she remarks. She doesn’t push it, though.

They drink in a companionable silence, but Andrew’s thoughts won’t stop careening round his skull like rogue bullets. He thinks about the previous night and of Neil furiously following him upstairs and shoving him hard into their room. He’d looked and sounded so frustrated as he’d asked Andrew why he didn’t care.

The truth is, sometimes Andrew _does_ care. But it’s like his anger; he has to swallow it down. Caring feels too much like splitting himself open for the whole world to see. It also feels a little too much like flying, like falling. The threatening tilt of vertigo. He doesn’t know what will be left of him when he lands on his feet.

He doesn’t know how to tell Neil that not caring is just _easier_ than caring.

It always has been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm [lolainslackss](http://lolainslackss.tumblr.com) on tumblr
> 
> come say hi, tell me if you enjoyed this chapter, or lmk if you spotted any mistakes :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings for panic attacks, flashbacks and references to homophobia

Neil spends the next few days throwing all his energy into practice. He rises early and runs thirteen kilometres down in the hotel gym before heading out with the rest of the team to train. They’re supposed to do four hours between noon and four before heading back to the hotel for dinner, but he, Kevin and Jeremy stay behind with the striker subs to go over drills.

Neil slinks back to his room at around eight feeling exhausted and sore but _good_.

He and Andrew see each other at the mandatory practices and sometimes in the evenings or early in the mornings, but they mostly ignore each other. Neil doesn’t mind. Bickering is a waste of energy and besides, he’s been unable to shake Andrew’s comments about him and Kevin the other night from his mind. He doesn’t really know what to say to make the situation any better, or even if he _should_. Maybe it’s best to just stay out of Andrew’s way and silently hope he’ll co-operate on the court.

They’re about three minutes into the second half of the match against Japan when Neil senses that’s not happening.

Ferne ‘Mac’ Mackinney plays in goal for the first half. Mac’s no Andrew Minyard, but she’s good enough. The problem is that Japan have an ace goalie up their sleeves as well. Kyoko Onishi is deadly and apparently she’s playing two full halves. Neil and Laney struggle to make a lead in the first half hour and then they’re taken off for Jeremy and Kevin. When Neil is put back onto the court for the beginning of the second half, the US is still behind: four points to Japan’s six.

The critical differences between this half and the first are that Andrew has replaced Mac and Onishi will be flagging soon. All things considered, it should be an easy win.

 _Should_ be.

Neil doesn’t know if it’s because of the Daysten drama the other night, or because Andrew is just wired to make his life a living nightmare, but Andrew’s back to aimlessly slinging the ball up court whenever it comes his way and letting in what should be simple saves. Neil senses they’re going to lose if he doesn’t go straighten things out, so when Japan call for a pause to swap out some of their players, Neil takes advantage of the tiny break in play and runs over to the goal.

“What’s happening?” he asks, trying to keep any hint of irritation out of his voice.

“I’m playing Exy,” Andrew replies darkly.

“You’re playing sloppy,” Neil corrects him. “You’re letting in easy goals and your passes are way off.”

“The defence line are flimsy,” Andrew counters, “and it’s not my fault if you can’t catch.”

“Come on, Andrew,” Neil says, glancing over at the referee and realising he only has a few minutes left to somehow convince Andrew to give a shit. “You promised.”

“Oh, I _promised_?” Andrew repeats, mocking Neil’s tone. “Did I link my fucking pinkie with yours? No. Get out of my face.”

“We made a deal, then,” Neil amends impatiently. “You’re supposed to work with me, remember?”

“I remember. For one measly favour, if I recall correctly?” Andrew says, holding his index finger up in front of Neil’s helmet.

“Cash it in any time,” Neil replies warily. He still has no idea what Andrew will ask of him, or if he’ll be able to deliver.

“If you start showing signs of being useful in any way, I’ll let you know,” Andrew tells him, making a shooing gesture with his gloved hand.

Neil hesitates but runs over to rejoin Jeremy at centre court.

Japan have switched both of their strikers and they come to the court with palpable energy. Neil swears under his breath as he pushes himself to run faster, _go further_ , but by the time he and Jeremy are taken off and Kevin and a striker sub - Len Ortega - join the game, they’re still behind, though they’ve reduced the point gap considerably.  

When Neil collapses onto the bench the score reads seven to eight. He gulps down water as play commences and tries to stay optimistic. On the court, Andrew is yelling something at Jean and Matt. They look startled for a second or two, but as the game goes on, they start blocking Japan’s route to Andrew with a rejuvenated ferocity. Meanwhile, Kevin and Len focus on scoring points. Kevin had specifically requested Len as a sub and right now, Neil can see why. He plays with the exact same precision as Kevin does, and they start collecting points just as Andrew shuts down the goal at the other end of the court.

Neil is standing and jogging over to the plexiglass before he can stop himself. The last few minutes trickle away and then the final score is flashing on the scoreboard in magnificent neon yellow: ten points to eight. He runs onto the court with the rest of the team and barrels into Kevin, grinning triumphantly.

Somehow, they’ve won.

 

...

 

After, Neil and Jean are chosen for press duty. While everyone debates whether that’s a good idea, Coach just smiles and says she isn’t worried.

Neil can’t help but notice it’s a forced smile.

The interviews always follows a familiar path. The reporters open by asking about the game and then move on to the tournament or league as a whole before wrapping things up with a few fluffy, personal questions.

He and Jean do just fine. They’re confident yet diplomatic, and Neil wonders why everyone is always so worried when it’s his turn to deal with the press. He’s got a lot less to rant about than he did in college, in his opinion.

“Mr. Josten?” A reporter asks, flashing Neil a flirtatious smile when he gets his attention. “There have been rumours you’re all paired off in those cosy hotel rooms of yours. Our fans are _very_ curious about that. Could you tell us if you and Kevin are sharing?”

“No, we’re not,” Neil replies plainly. “Next question.”

That’s not how he’d usually answer a question like that. His PR team have told him to be coy, vague, to keep everyone guessing. The thing is, he can’t do that. Not anymore. Andrew’s words from the other night have wormed their way inside him, and the guilt makes him feel like he’s been doused in cold water.

Andrew Minyard came out as gay during a post-game Q&A, not unlike the one Neil is currently taking part in. Neil doesn’t know what was the catalyst behind his coming out, but he peppered the fact into one of his responses almost like an afterthought. He was the number one trending topic on Twitter that night, and think pieces about homosexuality and ‘its place’ in sports were all the rage that week. There was a lot of support; there was much more vitriol. Sports journalists loved to use Andrew’s sexuality as a derogatory epithet, especially if he’d just shut down the goal on their team. Even worse was the reaction from some of the Hummingbirds fans. The more homophobic of the bunch called for him to resign, claiming having a gay player on the team wasn’t appropriate for their kids. Others were fine with it until he let a goal in. That’s when the slurs were thrown around the stands. Officially, there was no place for homophobia in Exy as a token zero-tolerance policy had been issued a few years back. This proved hard to regulate, but Andrew didn’t stop campaigning for fair treatment. The thing was, nobody had properly publicly supported him at the time. Neil certainly hadn’t; he’d been busy playing and besides, he hated the guy.

Right now, he regrets that.

Andrew had been right last night; Neil and Kevin were benefiting from being perceived as a gay couple while Andrew was being attacked for his sexuality whenever it suited the fans or journalists. What he had to figure out now was what he could do about it.

“Speaking of Kevin,” another reporter pipes up, interrupting his thoughts. “How are things _going_ between the two of you?”

Neil turns to look at her, noticing the way her lips twist into a knowing smirk; she knows it’s all bullshit but as long as her readers eat it up, she doesn’t care. Anger - sour and sore - unfurls its spines in the pit of his stomach. He’s angry for himself and Kevin and angry for the fans, but also, he realises, he’s angry for Andrew.

“Let’s settle this once and for all,” he snaps, narrowing his eyes at her. “Kevin and I aren’t together. We should have probably said this years ago, but Kevin and I aren’t dating. We never have dated and we never will date. I know you journalists like to exploit your teenage readers with tales of mine and Kevin’s epic romance, but that stops now. After all, you’re the same journalists who have written nasty things about Andrew Minyard when he fails to shut the goal down, right? Boring implications about his masculinity, etcetera?”

“I- I didn’t mean-” the reporter begins, looking shocked. Camera lights flicker rapidly in the sea of reporters gathered around him and someone in the front - who is recording Neil’s every word - is grinning like Santa Claus just came down the fucking chimney.

“And hey, let’s talk about Andrew Minyard,” Neil carries on, interrupting her protests. “He’s the first openly gay player on the US Court, and an active campaigner. He’s also the best fucking goalkeeper in the game and he’s _going_ to win us this world cup. I hope you know that, and I hope you all think he’s- well, as brilliant as I do.”

Beside him, Jean looks half-anguished and half-amused. Neil offers him a one-shoulder shrug and turns back to the press. All the reporters are in a rush to ask questions about whether he and Kevin have had a bust-up, and whether he’s gay or not and when, exactly, did his and Andrew’s infamous rivalry come to an end, but Jean puts up his hands in surrender.

“No more questions,” Jean calls out, a too-late attempt at damage control. This seems to only energise them further. Their questions melt into one another, an ocean of words.

“Get the fuck off the stage,” Jean mutters, shoving Neil a little too vigorously.

“Gladly,” Neil replies. He’s said what he wanted to say and doesn’t really care anymore. He and Jean stumble into the green room where everyone is waiting for them. Coach’s mouth is frozen in a perfect, round _o_.

“They’re annoying,” he explains, shrugging.

“What the fuck?” Jean hisses from his side. “You know this is huge, right?”

“No,” Neil says petulantly. “I was just setting the record straight.”

“A lot of people believe that you and Kevin have been in a relationship for years,” Jean goes on, as if Neil’s some kind of oblivious idiot.

“There are like, fifty thousand fanfics about you guys online,” Jeremy adds. “All these porn-y blogs, too.”

“There are theories you guys are secretly _married_ ,” Jean continues. “And you’ve both never denied anything. Not publicly.”

“And now I have,” Neil says, bored of the conversation. “I don’t see why this is such a big deal. It was never true.”

“But they didn’t know that,” Jean snaps incredulously.

“What are you getting at?” Neil asks. There’s this sinking feeling in his chest all of a sudden, like maybe he _has_ really fucked up.

“What he’s getting at,” Coach interjects, “is that you just broke a _fuckton_ of hearts, kid.”

Neil swallows hard and looks for Kevin, certain at least _he_ will understand. He’s always complaining about how he and Thea can’t act like a couple in public or have to wear disguises when they go on holiday or pretend they’re not living together in interviews. But Kevin’s staring at him like he’s just stabbed him firmly in the back so Neil looks away.

Funnily enough, the safest place to focus his attention is on Andrew. He’s leaning against the wall, completely still, and watching Neil with this unreadable expression on his face. Neil doesn’t know if it’s surprise or annoyance or what, but he returns it with the blankest look he can manage until they’re ushered away onto the bus.

 

…

 

Neil spends the ride back to the hotel bracing himself for the worst. A part of him is happy to have finally put Daysten to rest, but he’s not stupid. Jean was right; his words will have had a domino effect.

The buzzing mob waiting outside their hotel is expected but unsettling nonetheless. His heart instantly kicks in his chest like a trapped animal.

“Shit,” Coach hisses under her breath, getting to her feet though the bus hasn’t stopped yet and grabbing the handrail as she stumbles a little. “I _told_ you, Josten.”

Neil forces a shrug as the bus shudders to a stop and the engine noise cuts out. Matt rubs at the fogged-up window with the sleeve of his sweatshirt and peers outside. Nobody is particularly eager to get off the bus and face the mayhem so the rest of Neil’s teammates do the same. Outside the crowd is divided in two. On the left are the journalists and reporters and paparazzi; black microphones and huge cameras bobbing above their heads like birds resting on water. Across from them are the fans. Neil’s gaze is drawn to two distraught girls who are at the front of the group; they’re propping each other up, tears treading wet lines through their red, white and blue face paint.

Neil doesn’t want to go out there, but he also doesn’t regret what he said. There’s nothing else to do but to face whatever uproar is waiting for him, so he abruptly stands up. Dan shakes her head at him as he starts striding down the middle of the bus.

“Maybe you should wait here and think about what you’re going to say-” she starts.

“He’s not going to say anything,” Coach interrupts. “I think he’s accomplished enough for one day, don’t you?”

“Are you actually telling me I didn’t do the right thing?” he asks, not recognising his own voice. It’s sharpened like a knife, dredged up from the undertow.  

“I think you’ve caused pointless drama right in the middle of the most important tournament of your life,” she replies, staring him down.

“I’m getting off this bus,” Neil says. He’s willing to push past her if necessary but she lets him pass by.

He’s vaguely aware that his teammates are following him, but when he steps off the bus, everything is eclipsed by the gunfire of voices suddenly hurtling in his direction. The crowd lurches forward and someone shrieks and every single atom of his body is screaming out to turn and _run_ , but somehow his legs carry him forward.

He looks ahead at the hotel doors as he’s swallowed up by the crowd. Hotel security are _only just_ keeping everyone at bay so there’s a narrow path for him to push through, but microphones are still being shoved in his face from all directions. A hundred different questions are being thrown at him in a hundred different languages. Some he recognises; others he doesn’t. Briefly, the barrier is breached and fingertips graze his clothes, hungry for a piece of him.

It’s too much.

He’s gasoline and they’re a lit match. He’s catching fire.

And it’s weird, because as soon as he thinks that, he sees the flame.

It makes him stop dead in his tracks and when his eyes meet hers, he sees real fury behind the film of tears. She’s holding a lighter to the edge of what he realises is a poster of him and Kevin (it was from a photoshoot a year or so ago; the photographer was told by the editor to play up the whole Daysten thing, so they’re standing a little too closely, hands entwined around the same racquet so that the tips of their fingers are grazing) and he watches the flame quickly devour the two of them before the whole thing disintegrates into black dust.

His cheekbone twinges.  

“Keep moving,” Matt says from somewhere behind him, but he’s already gone.

He’s in Binghamton and he’s watching someone smash a glass bottle over Kevin’s head as he’s pulled further and further away; he’s in the passenger seat of a car on the road to his father’s house and he’s going to die. Burning pain sears his skin and pulsates through the spiderweb of nerves that lie beneath. The knowledge that he’ll experience worse before the night is out is suffocating, unbearable-

“Neil.”

Matt is in front of him now. The roar has quietened and it takes Neil a moment to realise they’ve made it to the hotel lobby. Matt looks so genuinely concerned that Neil chokes out a laugh but it must come out hysterical and warped because Matt just frowns.

“It’s okay,” he tries instead. “I’m fine.”

Matt looks unconvinced but the rest of the team are filing inside so he drops it.

“Jeez,” Allison says. “Your fans are absolutely batshit. What was that?”

“They’re just feeling melodramatic because Neil just wrecked all their romantic dreams,” Jeremy says airily. “They’ll get over it.”

Andrew is the last to enter and he closes the door behind him. After staring at it for a second as if wondering whether or not to barricade it, he crouches down to tie his shoelaces.

Being surrounded by his teammates in the safety of the hotel lobby makes Neil’s heart rate slowly return to normal. He releases a shaky sigh and relaxes a little, letting the tension dribble out of his body bit by bit. When he looks for Kevin, he’s not surprised to find him glaring at him.

“What did you do?” Kevin asks, like Neil has triggered the end of the world or something.

Annoyance twists through Neil, bright and thorny. He clenches his fists at his sides so that he’s not tempted to wipe that stupid, self-righteous look off Kevin’s face.  

“You’ve fucked it,” Kevin goes on. “They hate us.”

“Oh, just shut the fuck up, Kevin,” Neil spits, angry now. “Now you and Thea can fucking walk around holding hands in public. Isn’t that a good thing?”

“But-”

“No. Andrew was right.”

Andrew’s fingers still on his shoelace at the sound of his name but he doesn’t look up.

“Andrew was right,” Neil continues. “We shouldn’t deceive the fans, and we especially shouldn’t be getting glory for something he gets grief for. We should be supporting him. All of us should be.”

Nobody says anything. Kevin looks like he still wants to argue. His teammates look pensive, ashamed almost. Nobody particularly likes Andrew very much, but they know Neil is right. They could all do better.

Andrew, meanwhile, finishes tying his shoelaces before leaving without a word.

The truth is that once upon a time, Neil _had_ thought he liked Kevin as more than just a friend. It had been sudden, surprising even to himself. It had been a tense, overwhelming time, and Kevin had understood all the splintered pieces of his fucked-up life, and they’d been _close_. He’d leaned on Kevin, and in the end, Kevin had helped save his life.

What he’d felt had been this fragile, foreign and faintly glowing thing. He hadn’t been able to give it a name, or a shape. It just _was_ , and then it was gone.

Fast-forward to playing professionally and his PR team says playing along with the Daysten thing will be good for him. He’s never really understood why his and Kevin’s ‘relationship’ is such a sensation, but he’s told that indulging the fans will solidify his popularity and score him sponsorship deals. It seems harmless, and his life depends on staying relevant, so he goes along with it. They never go too far. All it takes is a vague comment or a prolonged hug after a game and the fans are satisfied and smug for weeks on end.

The thing is, the pretending sometimes makes him feel strange, adrift. It makes him think of those mixed-up feelings he’d once had for Kevin, and how, for many reasons, nothing had come of it. It’s also a constant reminder that he’s probably never going to have anything like that with anyone. He’s okay with that, but loneliness simmers underneath his skin like anger. Sure, he has Kevin, but he sometimes feels like their friendship has been stolen and repurposed, like it doesn’t belong to them anymore. He doesn’t get along with any of the other Capercaillies and while Dan and Matt have made Court, and his other college teammates are just a phone call away, it just isn’t the same. The gaps widen and the cold shadows slip in.

Back when Neil became real, he’d been thankful just to be alive. That he could continue to play Exy was just an added bonus.

These days, he often finds himself wondering if Exy is enough.

He banishes the thought away every time it rears its ungrateful head.

Exy not only tethers him to the world but it’s all he has. It _has_ to be enough.

 

…

 

Neil heads back to the hotel room feeling skittish from the day’s events and hollowed out by his thoughts. It’s late afternoon and a balmy breeze tentatively fidgets with the curtains. Breathing in deeply, he turns his attention to his side of the room; his bed is unmade but it looks so inviting that he falls onto it face-first. The duvet is warm from the sun and it feels so nice that he thinks he might just sleep exactly the way he is, fully clothed and splayed on top of the blanket.

“Shouldn’t you shower?” Andrew drawls, appearing as suddenly as a summoned demon.

Neil rolls onto his front and opens one eye. Andrew is leaning against the doorframe and studying Neil with his arms folded across his chest.

“It’s been a long day,” Neil says by way of an explanation.

“We won, yet you’re not being your usual unbearable self,” Andrew replies, making his way across the room to his own bed. “Very strange.”

“What happened after-” Neil begins, unsure of what he’s trying to say. “I’ve pissed everyone off. Kevin’s pissed. The fans are pissed. My manager is going to be _extremely_ pissed.”

“Boohoo,” Andrew says sarcastically, dumping a dented pack of cigarettes on his bedside table.

“I didn’t mean- I’m not bothered about that,” Neil says, flopping onto his side so he can face Andrew. “I don’t regret it because I needed to do it. I guess I’m trying to say thank you. For bringing it up the other night.”

“Congratulations on making yourself feel less guilty,” Andrew responds dryly.

“Maybe it _was_ to make myself feel less guilty,” Neil agrees with a shrug. “But none of it would have happened if you hadn’t said what you’d said.”

Andrew just looks at him blankly and Neil waits to see if he’s going to reply.

“What I mean is, it’s better this way for me as well,” Neil adds, and it feels like extending a hand or catching a serve. Something small and shared between them. A peace offering of sorts.

“All that pretending didn’t feel good,” Neil explains vaguely, “though I could have done without all that mess outside.”

“Ah, yes,” Andrew says slowly. “Your little breakdown.”

“You noticed that?”

“It was hard not to. You were completely spaced out,” Andrew tells him, looking up at Neil through the translucent strands of blond hair that have fallen in his face. “In another world.”

Neil has locked his pain inside of himself, letting it spread and darken like mould. His triggers are numerous: angry crowds, smoke, burning things, knives. They sharpen the edges of his memories so that the next time they resurface, they’re a little deadlier than before. He supposes it is a little like entering another world. When he saw the flames distort the image of himself on the poster, he could smell his own burning flesh and feel the handcuffs securing him in place. He could see Lola’s too-wide grin, feel the pain twist through him like gnarled tree roots.

He touches his fingertips to his face, expecting to feel raw, plasticy blistering. Instead, he feels the usual glossy scarring. Andrew is watching him intently.

“You really are a disaster,” Andrew says, leaning forwards and snapping his fingers in front of Neil’s face. “None of those friends of yours ever bully you into therapy?”

“Nobody can bully me into therapy,” Neil replies. “There are enough people in my head.”

“Assholes or aliases?” Andrew asks.

“Very funny,” Neil deadpans.

Andrew just shrugs and pulls out his phone. Neil swallows hard, still feeling torn into shreds. The instinct to run away is as palpable to him as his own heartbeat.

“Can you take me somewhere?” Neil asks before he can think the question through.

Andrew huffs an incredulous laugh out through his nose.

“I don’t want to be here,” Neil admits, “and I know you’ve found a way out. You snuck out the other day.”

“I believe you owe me one favour already,” Andrew says without looking up from whatever inane game he’s playing. “And your antics today don’t count, by the way. One: I never asked for it, and two: you did it more for yourself than for me.”

“I know that. This would be you upholding your end of that bargain,” Neil tells him, sitting up and waving a hand in the space just above Andrew’s phone to get his attention. “I told you to work with me, and right now, I need to get out of here.”

Andrew just glares at Neil’s hand, and for a second, Neil thinks he’s about to tell him to fuck off and leave him alone. Instead, Andrew flicks away the game, slips his phone inside his pocket and stands.

“We’re going,” Andrew says.

“Where?” Neil asks, scrambling to his feet.

Andrew shrugs and jerks his head towards the window.

“Someplace else.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come chat to me on [tumblr](http://lolainslackss.tumblr.com). if you enjoyed this chapter or noticed any typos, shoot me a comment :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, uh, how's everybody been?
> 
> cw: references to self-harm

They end up on a train heading out of Tokyo. It seemed like the most sensible thing to do in light of Neil’s ongoing panic attack surrounding the mob of journalists and fans lurking outside of the hotel, but as the train snakes further and further away from the capital, Andrew realises neither of them have a clue where they’re headed or what, exactly, they’re going to do when they get there.

Neil lays his forehead against the train window and closes his eyes. He seems less skittish than when they were in the hotel room, but he’s uncharacteristically quiet, having barely said a word since they snuck out through Andrew’s secret exit in the hotel’s laundry room. Andrew has disguised Neil in some of his spare things: an old suit jacket over a ratty Patti Smith tee, a beanie with the word UGH stitched across the front and finally, a pair of oversized sunglasses, which he had worn when they were still in Tokyo but now dangle from his jacket pocket. He’s all in black - no longer a shock of colour in red, white and blue - and somehow, they’re getting away with it. Nobody in their carriage is paying them much attention, in any case.

They’ve been on the train for over half an hour. The afternoon sunshine pours in through the carriage windows, creating giant squares of platinum-gold light on the floor. Andrew thinks of them as portals and imagines falling through one of them, sliding straight through the bottom of the carriage and the tracks beneath, eventually emerging on the other side of the world. He pushes back against his seat, letting the fuzzy fabric scratch his neck, and looks at Neil.

Neil’s eyes are open again, and he’s watching Andrew with cat-like curiosity. His eyes really are ludicrously blue, as if they’ve been enchanted that colour. Andrew tries to look at anything but them, but Neil is built of distractions. Andrew’s eyes dart from Neil’s auburn curls, which poke out from the beanie like russet-coloured leaves curving towards the sun, to the sullen, pink swell of his lips and Andrew feels this unwelcome feeling shimmering across his brain, skittering the way light does when it’s caught on a ripple of water. It’s akin to panic, but pleasant, and he knows why: he likes it. That is, he likes seeing Neil in his clothes. It’s aesthetically pleasing in a way that makes him feel squirmy and frustrated.

He hurriedly reminds himself that it’s fine. That it doesn’t say anything about him other than that he’s attracted to an objectively handsome guy. It’s normal. A cold and passing admiration for something pretty. And so, he forces himself to stop rationalising his _very ordinary_ feelings and turns to look out of the window at the blurry, trailing scenery of grey buildings and the occasional grassy playing field.

The sunny afternoon is quite rapidly swallowed whole by grey clouds. Andrew takes out his phone and Googles the next stop as, though their tickets take them there, he figures they can’t just ride the train to the end of the line. His phone tells him that there are a tourist attractions near the next stop: a fairground of some sort and the Cup Noodles museum. Andrew squints at the words, confused. Surely that can’t be right. A museum dedicated in its entirety to fucking _Cup Noodles_? He sighs a ragged sigh and slips his phone back inside his pocket. Cup Noodles will have to do.

Rain begins to tap against the windows and Andrew momentarily wonders if they should just camp out on the train until the bad weather blows over before he remembers he has a travel umbrella stored in his backpack somewhere. Aaron had packed it in with his luggage along with some other necessities Andrew hadn’t bothered to get, like a notepad and pen and a mini first aid kit.

Sick of his own mundane thoughts, he turns his attention once more to Neil. He looks calm now, much more at ease, like the further away from Tokyo they get, the looser the knots of panic inside him become. Andrew supposes if he reached out to check Neil’s pulse, he’d feel it tapping steadily and slowly beneath his fingertips. Neil catches his eye and offers him a strange smile that’s equal parts apologetic and thankful. The sight of it makes Andrew want to ruin his own life, so he scowls grotesquely in return, mutters something about them needing to get off at the next stop, and then slouches low in his seat before blinking hard and leaving his eyes clamped shut.

He stays that way until the train slows and stops.

 

…

 

They leave the station and step into pouring rain. Andrew opens his umbrella against it and starts walking. He memorised the directions to the museum when he looked it up on Google earlier. It’s only a short walk away but Neil immediately makes it an annoying one by asking stupid questions.

“Can’t I fit under there too?” Neil grumbles. The rain is already clinging to his hair and eyelashes, twinkling like glitter.

“Nope,” Andrew replies easily. “That would require you to step within two feet of me and that usually ends in a fight, doesn’t it?”

“Andrew, come on,” Neil complains. “I’ll get soaked through.”

“Sounds like your problem,” Andrew says, meaning it. He’s thinking about it and not thinking about it. That is, why he decided to help Neil out. Even a week ago, it would be something he’d rather die than consider. But Neil had looked so scared and trapped in their hotel room. It had reminded Andrew of something. Something he didn’t want to define or give shape to. He thinks about Nicky’s tears and the ugly scraping sound of Aaron’s nails against the bathroom door. Thinks about himself locked away in countless bathrooms: the soft, familiar dripping on the tiles, the breathlessness, the feeling of reaching what he thinks has to be the end of everything. _Shit_ , he thinks. _Shut up_. _Shut up._ _Shut up_.

By the time he’s emptied his brain of poisonous garbage, they’ve reached their destination. The Cup Noodles museum is surrounded by clusters of children clad in colourful raincoats, chattering animatedly. A drenched Neil looks up at the museum, confused.

“Cup Noodles,” he reads blandly. “What the fuck, Andrew.”

“It’s far away from the hotel, isn’t it?” Andrew reminds him. “If you want to go somewhere more interesting, then hire a fucking tour guide.”

Neil’s nostrils flare briefly and he rounds on Andrew, his glacier eyes unblinking. For one outrageous moment, Andrew wonders how Neil would react if Andrew suddenly grabbed him and punched him. Or kissed him.

He opens his mouth to say something horrible and thereby erase that last stupid thought from his traitor of a brain when a teenage girl breaks away from one of the school groups and approaches them shyly.

“Um, Neil?” she says, and Andrew’s eyes go straight to the shiny enamel pin on her jacket. It’s a little pastel Exy raquet. Figures. “Neil Josten?”

Neil freezes, his earlier panic flaring to life once again. He plasters on a fake smile as he turns to offer her a pathetic little wave. Andrew thinks about telling her to fuck off but that probably wouldn’t go down too well, so he just settles for observing how Neil reacts to the situation.

“I just read about what happened,” she says, looking sad and curious. “About you and Kevin. About what you said.”

“Oh. Yeah,” Neil replies awkwardly. “Sorry if you thought-”

“Oh, no, don’t be sorry,” she interrupts, looking horrified. “It’s actually kind of nice to just _know_ finally, you know? Instead of wondering.”

“Right,” Neil says, looking conflicted. “Okay.”

“I just want you guys to be happy, that’s all,” she says, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

Andrew snorts, startling her. She probably hadn’t even noticed he was there before, but now she’s staring at him like the stars have just aligned.

“Oh, wow,” she says, her eyes wide and shining. “Andrew Minyard. You guys are- um, were you sharing an umbrella?”

“We were definitely _not_ sharing it,” Andrew replies curtly.

“But you’re here, like, _together_?” The girl asks, suddenly watching him intently.

Andrew just glares at her but Neil laughs and shakes his head.

“Oh, trust me,” he tells her, “there’s definitely more of a chance of Daysten like, actually happening than well, _that_ happening.”

Andrew rolls his eyes and considers banging their heads together.

“Oh, okay, sorry. Anyway, I just wanna say I trust you’ll always do the right thing, Neil,” the girl goes on, smiling brightly, “and I love you. So much. Good luck with everything!”

Neil’s forced grin rapidly wilts into a frown once she has turned away.

“Well, wasn’t that touching?” Andrew remarks dryly, folding his arms across his chest and watching as she rejoins her group and starts gushing to her friends. “She trusts you, Neil. She _loves_ you.”

“Yeah. Well. At least she has that,” Neil says, making a huffy, amused noise. “Can you even imagine being that openly trusting? I’ve, well- I’ve never trusted anyone that way. Not really.”

“Oh, lovely,” Andrew says sarcastically. “Oversharing.”

“You must know what I’m talking about,” Neil responds, turning to Andrew with this disbelieving, almost desperate look in his eye. “The fans- they _say_ they love you but their love is fickle. It has conditions. And besides, they don’t know us. They don’t know me. Not this fucked up and messy version of me, at least. The one who basically has a meltdown when he hears them screaming out his name. And they don’t know _you_ -”

“Just pretend they don’t exist,” Andrew suggests, half-shrugging. “I do.”

“ _Do_ you trust anyone?” Neil asks, catching Andrew’s eye. He really is soaked. Andrew’s suit jacket is clinging to his body and his curls are flattened against his forehead. It should make him look like a wet poodle but instead he just looks like he’s doing some kind of high fashion photoshoot. It’s so annoying that it takes Andrew a second or two to register the question he’s been asked.

“Everyone is just looking to get paid,” he says. “Managers, publicists. Even your teammates.”

Neil bristles. “That’s not what I asked.”

“What you asked was stupid,” Andrew snaps.

Do _you trust anyone?_ Andrew instantly thinks of two hands reaching out to him: Cass’s, studded with rings, her nails painted that pale, ashy pink that she loved so much, and Bee’s, pudgy and soft and sweet-smelling from that honey and apricot hand cream that Andrew gave her for her birthday that one year. Before he can choose which one to take, they’re gone, and in their place is Aaron’s hand, clenched tight like a stone. Shaking.

_What have you done?_

Finally, his own hand. Freckled with blood.

“I trust myself,” Andrew tells Neil finally.

Neil’s eyes widen a fraction, as if he’s just seen something in Andrew he recognises and is surprised by it.

 _Jinx_ , Andrew thinks, momentarily holding Neil’s gaze before turning to look up at the museum. He can think of a hundred things he’d rather do than visit a museum dedicated to Cup Noodles, but the rain continues to rattle against his umbrella and Neil still looks a little bit frayed at the seams.

“Should we go?” Andrew drawls, tugging his phone out of his pocket to check the time. “We’ll miss the last entrance time.”

“Oh, yeah,” Neil says, looking at the museum as if he’d forgotten it was there. “Let’s go in.”

 

...

 

They end up making it in time, though the way the ticket clerk looks at them tells Andrew it’s more to do with who they are rather than the time on the clock. They wander silently around the exhibit in which there are fifty years of instant noodle packaging lined up along the wall. While Andrew goes to wait on a bench, Neil does a full circuit of the room, apparently set on studying every single packet. When he’s done, he looks what Andrew supposes is ‘back to normal’. Whatever that means. They move on, finding themselves in a room that looks like a cafeteria. They’re handed blank noodle cups and they sit down to decorate them. Neil predictably doodles his jersey number while Andrew draws the grim reaper holding a pair of chopsticks. Neil lets loose a laugh when he sees it, but when Andrew just glares a him, he presses his lips together and straightens his face. Next, they go up to a counter to pick what ingredients they’d like. Andrew opts for curry soup base, with corn and garlic chips, not really knowing what the hell he’s doing, while Neil weaves together some shaky-sounding Japanese to get what Andrew thinks is the regular soup base with green beans and egg. _How boring_ , Andrew thinks, as Neil’s noodle cup is packaged inside a plastic bag.

“Kevin has been teaching me,” Neil explains, when he catches Andrew looking.

“Didn’t ask,” Andrew replies.

They make their way back to the train station and, after a short wait, get on a train that will take them back to Tokyo. They have to sit next to each other rather than across from each other as the carriage is otherwise full. Andrew nabs the window seat and leans as far away from Neil as possible, inspecting the dark rainbow of the oil-slick evening sky. The day was barrelling towards its end like the train was rushing them back to Tokyo. As far as days went, this one had been full of annoyances: the game, Neil’s stupid remarks to the press and now, and perhaps worst of all, that it had settled into something _easy_. The fact that they had just shared what could be classified as a peaceful afternoon niggles at Andrew like a fresh bruise.

Just as he buries that irritation somewhere deep and dark and hidden so he won’t have to confront it, Neil has the gall to lean against his shoulder.

Andrew flinches hard and shoots Neil an annoyed look. Neil just peers at him through tired eyes and gives an apologetic shrug.

“I didn’t mean to-” Neil begins, before catching himself and sitting up straight. “I’m just tired. Sorry.”

Andrew watches him rub his eyes with his fists and lean back against his seat and for some unknowable reason, it’s in this small and insignificant moment that Andrew decides he should cash in his favour.

“It’s time to pay up,” he says.

Neil stills and then eyes Andrew warily.

“Here’s what you can give me,” Andrew goes on. “You. For one evening. Dinner and drinks. No Exy chat. No fucking sportswear.”

“How is that a favour?” Neil asks, his brow wrinkling in confusion.

“Well, obviously you treat me,” Andrew says blandly, “so I get free food and booze out of it.”

“A free dinner?” Neil sounds like he doesn’t trust Andrew one bit. “That’s it?”

“What else could you offer me? You’re pretty useless.”

Neil presses his lips together and twists them to the side. He wants to argue, Andrew can tell. He wants to ask what the catch is, but in the end, he doesn’t.

“Fine,” he says. “One dinner, then we’re even.”

“Then we’re even,” Andrew agrees.

 

…

 

The next day is another rest day, which suits Andrew just fine. He does laps in the hotel pool before spending the afternoon lying on the roof, razing through the last of his cigarettes and staring at the endless, unchanging blue sky until the sun’s heat makes him feel dizzy and delirious.

When he returns to his and Neil’s room, Neil is lounging on the bed, watching the World Cup on the TV. Andrew rolls his eyes and reaches for the remote, but Neil snatches it before Andrew can get to it.

“I’ll mute it,” Neil says, shutting off the sound. “That’s called a compromise.”

“It’s called you being annoying as usual,” Andrew replies. “We’re going out tonight.”

“Okay,” Neil says, as if he were expecting Andrew to say that.

“I had the receptionist book reservations under your name at the most expensive restaurant in the area,” Andrew tells him. “Better put on your fanciest clothes.”

“You do realise this won’t be like yesterday?” Neil says, pulling his legs up to his chest. “We’re going to be in the middle of Tokyo. No disguises. We’ll definitely be photographed together.”

“So?” Andrew shrugs. “We’re teammates.”

“Who famously loathe each other.”

“Maybe we’ve grown fond of each other while playing on the same team,” Andrew suggests sarcastically.

Neil doesn’t look very convinced.

“Look at it this way: maybe they’ll all shut the fuck up about Daysten for five minutes.”

Neil’s denial of his and Kevin’s ‘relationship’ had led to #DaystenIsDead trending on Twitter; Andrew had been checking it all day. A lot of people were heartbroken. Others were smug, claiming they’d known it wasn’t real all along. A smaller percentage were a bit more suspicious, describing Neil’s outburst as a ‘cover up’. There were suggestions that Neil was probably ordered to say what he said by his PR team. Andrew had found those particularly amusing. If only they knew.

“But I’ll be seen with _you_.”

“And what? You’re scared to be seen having dinner-for-two with the only openly gay player in Exy?”

“ _No_. I just- aren’t you worried about rumours starting? The press- they can get pretty invasive.”

Andrew raises an eyebrow and Neil sighs.

“Point taken.”

 

…

 

They take a taxi directly to the restaurant. Neil keeps his word and leaves the Nikes at home, instead wearing ripped black jeans and a plain black t-shirt underneath a flowy, open black-and-white striped shirt. Andrew didn’t even have to direct him and he’s somehow wearing what is basically the most flattering outfit ever. How infuriating.

Andrew is wearing one of the three suits he brought with him: the dark plum one with shiny black buttons. Underneath is a navy shirt. He’d spritzed on some peppery aftershave after getting ready but now it’s filling up the taxi and is starting to give him a bit of a headache. That, or he’s just dehydrated from sitting in the sun for hours on end, letting his brain fry. Neil seems to notice his discomfort and offers him his water bottle. Andrew considers refusing it but acquiesces.

They are definitely captured on camera by some photographers loitering nearby the restaurant. Andrew considers flipping them off, but doesn’t have to, as Neil beats him to it.

“They’re the worst,” Neil complains, as they’re led to their table. “Don’t they have anything better to do? We can’t be _that_ interesting.”

Andrew thinks about the situation they’ve found themselves in and isn’t sure he agrees.

Miraculously, they make it through two courses of food and an entire bottle of wine without arguing. By the time their dessert makes its way to the table, Neil is - Andrew is surprised to find - quite tipsy. His cheeks are flushed pink and his movements become less constrained and it’s interesting, because Andrew’s never seen him anything but sober before.

“Maybe we should play that game they were playing the other day,” Neil suggests, topping up both of their glasses.

“What, truth or dare?” Andrew says.

“No, Exy,” Neil says, before grinning a dopey grin that makes Andrew feel a little bit light-headed. “I’m just kidding.”

“About the Exy part or all of it?”

“All of it. I don’t want to play truth or dare; I’m not twelve.”

“Ah, but now that we’re the _best of friends_ ,” Andrew says dryly, “maybe it would be revealing.”

“Andrew-”

“So, Neil Josten, what’s the worst thing about being famous?”

Neil already answered that question in the bar the other night, but Andrew’s willing to bet he wasn’t entirely truthful. The question seems to strike a nerve, as Neil stops fidgeting with his wine glass and his eyes widen a fraction, but he doesn’t get angry. He swallows and licks his lips before attempting one of his patented fake smiles.

“I thought we said no Exy chat.” His response is predictably deflective.

“This isn’t about the game,” Andrew says.

Neil nods and takes another drink. His glass is empty now.

He looks distant, though whether it’s because of the direction the conversation has gone in or the potency of alcohol, Andrew’s not sure. It’s most likely a mixture of the two.

“It’s- I guess it’s the loneliness?” Neil says, looking down at the table and then back at Andrew. “Being alone.”

“Being alone,” Andrew parrots. “Doesn’t that appeal to your runaway tendencies?”

“I haven’t run away in a while,” Neil states slowly. Andrew’s not certain who he’s trying to convince with his response.

“What do you call yesterday?” Andrew asks, draining the rest of his own wine.

“That was different.”

“Why?”

Neil hesitates.

“Because you were there.”

Andrew hums, unconvinced.

“How can you be lonely? You have an entire team back home. Day is practically glued to your hip. Then there’s Boyd and Wilds, etc.”

Neil’s smile is as taut and sharp as chicken wire. “I’m not close to anyone on my team. Maybe that’s my fault. I’ve never found it easy to let people in and by this point, I don’t really know how to change that. A lot of them are assholes anyway, so fuck it. My friendship with Kevin is a field of landmines right now, and I don’t want to talk about it. My team from college- I- they- we don’t see each other enough. Maybe that really _is_ my fault.”

He shuts up for a second and the silence is a rubber band, stretching to the point of snapping.

“I have nobody. Just like before. The only difference is that before, I could endure it. I don’t know what changed.”

When he’s finished talking, he leans back in his seat and then leans forward again. He runs a hand through his hair. He’s flustered. Probably from saying too much. From giving too much of himself away to Andrew. This person who he hates.

But Andrew understands what it is that’s changed. Neil’s _life_ changed, just as Andrew’s did. There was horror and then there wasn’t. There was just the shock of a life, unfurling before him. When you’ve been through hell, the possibility of a ‘normal life’ feels like enough. It feels like more than enough, so that something like ‘loneliness’ doesn’t seem like such a terrible thing. Until it starts emptying you.

“How refreshing to hear you be so honest,” Andrew says.

“I- I’m drunk, I think,” Neil replies. “I’m sorry.”

“For being drunk or for spilling your heart out?” Andrew asks mockingly. “Either way, don’t be.”

Neil clenches his fist on the table and then gives a small nod. Chatter and music surround them, leaving them secluded in a bubble of quiet. It bursts only when the waitress takes away their plates, prompting Andrew to get to his feet.

Neil pays and then they wait for another taxi to come pick them up. The night feels heavy and Andrew feels restless, like he needs to go a round with a punching bag in the gym to calm the horrible, itchy energy pulsating inside him.  

After Andrew drops a confused Neil off at the hotel, he manages to get the driver to take him to a club. He enters the dark neon prism of the building, keeping his head down. Amidst the flashing strobe lights and the haze of masquerade smoke, he doesn’t think anyone recognises him. He drinks at the bar for a while, letting the booze and bassy techno music liquify his thoughts.

Eventually, he takes off down a hallway with someone tall, sturdy. Normal. Bee’s voice pinballs around his skull, saying something about unhealthy coping mechanisms and self-destructive behaviour, but he doesn’t listen to her.

He kisses the guy he’s got pinned to the corridor wall fiercely. Like it’ll kill them both.

Before he slips off the edge, into oblivion, he has one final coherent thought that cleaves its way through everything: Andrew’s lonely too. It’s in his marrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nice comments are the light of my life
> 
> [my tumblr](http://lolainslackss.tumblr.com) :)


End file.
